Undying Concerto
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: Alyn arrives in Tybee Island with a hangover, her little-sister and Jonah, with no plans for her summer except to chill, and maybe, just maybe...get back to the piano. She would never believe she'd be living a romance-novel plot...or that she would fall in love. Or that her heart would be broken.


**A.N.**: But for MC, this film would've made it to my Top 10 Faves! The utterly delectable Liam Hemsworth, so understated and commanding, and _tall_ – Greg Kinnear with his subtle humour, and the amazing Bobby Coleman. If I may humbly opine, young Master Coleman was by far the superior actor in this film; his breakdown in the glass workshop made me sob.

After reading the novel (through which I sobbed. Loudly) I decided I wanted to put my take on the film, if the female lead had been different. I.E. worthy of those biceps of Mr Hemsworth's.

* * *

**First Concerto**

_01_

* * *

Really, it hadn't started with the turtles, or even with Ivy's strawberry-milkshake, as Ivy had told Aunt Wendy.

It had started months before Alyn and her brother and sister had even arrived in Tybee Island for the summer. As they had driven through town, they had passed the charred skeleton of a very old church, small in size, but it had a pretty bell-tower with a widows'-walk, and Alyn could remember from her childhood that it had boasted a very pretty stained-glass window that had kept her entranced during services her dad had made them go to every Sunday morning. She remembered the pastor's wife, only because she had made lemonade sweeter than any soda you could buy. She hadn't been to Tybee Island in years, due to her parents' divorce, and her own simmering anger, but she could remember the way the light had played through the stained-glass window, sending shards of pure, sparkling colour against the glossy black finish of a mini-grand that stood behind Pastor Harris.

They used to ask her to play during services, accompanying the hymns. And during the fortnightly church socials, Alyn would share the piano-bench with her dad while he played contemporary jive and soul songs they could dance to while the older ladies in their hats ate cloud-like angel cake and sipped sweet-tea.

On New Year's Eve, the historic church of Tybee Island had been set ablaze; the local piano-teacher, who came to the church in the evenings to play on the mini-grand, had been carried out, unconscious, by firemen. The church hadn't been a total loss; the piano, and the beautiful stained-glass window, had been engulfed by the flames; the papers reported that Mr Steve Miller, 48, had fallen asleep, and candles had been allowed to burn out of control.

The district fire-marshal had ruled the fire an accident, but insurance wouldn't cover all of the damage done to the church, so though construction had begun in early-March when the weather had turned for the better, the last of the winter sea-storms ebbing to give way to flawless forget-me-not skies and an increase in sunshine and humidity, by June work on the church had come to a standstill, though the equipment remained in place in the lot, and occasionally the local police would have to chase off the same handful of teenagers from drinking in the derelict building.

When Alyn reflected back on the beginning of the summer, when she had arrived in Tybee Island with a hangover, she hadn't realised what she was truly walking into. A summer with her estranged dad, yes; but the rest of it?

Never in a million years would she have thought _she_ would live out the plot of a romance-novel, falling in love the summer she graduated high-school, caught up in a web of drama and secrets.

She had fallen in love, though. And it hurt.

Hurt so badly it felt as if someone had taken a chisel to her breastbone and whacked it with a mallet, trying to get to the swollen, scarred organ within. When Wendy had come into her room and curled up on the end of the bed, silently helping her unfold freshly-laundered clothes from a suitcase, the pain was still fresh – though strangely not worse. Her first heartbreak was oddly like balm, soothing the second. And that was the point. Love was supposed to do that; because though her heart had broken, she didn't stop loving.

Wendy said that was the hardest part, but the _best_ part of falling in love for the first time. You always remembered. And it helped, at least, it helped Alyn. Perhaps because, as her dad had so gently hinted in the weeks after, there was still hope. When they were the right one, they didn't give up – she hadn't. She just…had been hurt, and angry. Not just by Will. By everything that had happened that summer she hadn't understood at the time; only with hindsight could she see how everything had pieced together, intertwined, the subtle details, expressions barely noted, winces, the tell-tale signs and the provoking hints. Remembering Galadriel tell her that her nickname Blaze had come from her boyfriend, who 'liked fire', should have given her pause all those months ago, but in the beginning she hadn't known anything.

Now she understood it all, and wished she didn't; wished it had never happened. Wished she hadn't reacted the way she had; wished Will had told her at a different time; wished Scott hadn't been so selfish and scared; wished Marcus had never been born. Wished her dad had never gotten sick.

Wished she hadn't thrown away those three years when they had been estranged – because of her. Because she had been so angry, and heartbroken.

"_I wouldn't give back this summer, Alyn, not even for those three years_," her dad had murmured, his pale eyes, sunken and slightly glassy, earnest as he squeezed her hand, the strength in the motion long gone, but the feeling was there, and as Alyn's eyes burned, she gazed around the bedroom she shared with Ivy, their mismatched antique canopy-beds, the pink drapes, the faded floral rug and their identical white desks, it seemed alien: this wasn't the home she remembered. There was none of the weathered character from the bungalow, with its worn porch-steps, the removable screens they put up for dinner in candlelight, the constant rushing of the ocean, the scent of brine and the pies and cakes she had baked consistently throughout the summer, even into the bitter days of fall that had been her father's last. The softness of the worn wooden floors, the acrid scent of soldered lead from the workshop, and worse still, the _silence_.

The bungalow had tinkled with the precise, exquisite sounds of a talented pianist almost every hour of the day, audible over the rushing of the waves even from a distance, lulling her to sleep at night in the beginning of the summer, comforting her in the latter weeks, medicine to her father as he wasted away, in agony despite the morphine.

Most of all, she missed the _warmth_. There had been no air-conditioning in the beach-front bungalow; the entire summer, and most of the fall, had been dominated by the humidity and heat, embracing her like a hug. She had slept with a single sheet, deliciously warm, going to bed tired and happy from the sun and fresh air, waking early anticipating what new adventure she would get up to. For the rest of her life, she would remember the heat – Will's strong arms and his delicious lips; Ivy's eccentricity; the prehistoric turtle-babies; the stained-glass window; Megan's wedding; everything that had happened, had occurred in the blistering, close heat of the Georgia coast.

Wendy sighed heavily, eyeing a mound of floaty fuchsia silk-organza, before taking hold of the boned bodice and lifting the vintage gown out of the suitcase. She found a silk-bound hanger in Alyn's wardrobe, attaching the dress with two sinuous satin loops, hanging it off the end of Alyn's antique Balinese canopy-bed, the patches of beadwork sparkling, and Alyn's stomach started hurting, her chest aching in the way that reminded her of her panic-attack in the hospital outside her father's door, listening to Jonah crying and throwing things as he learned…

That _dress_; the memories that it brought up. The blistering heat and the scent of lilies and gladiolus; Megan's self-confidence and joy; her hair tickling her bare shoulders, worn down for the first time that summer; nibbling canapés, truffle-fries wrapped in prosciutto, sneaking a sparkling, sweet _Prosecco _with Will, the sweetest, juiciest strawberries in nature used in the delicate strawberry-shortcake desserts, the chilli-honey scallops on crispy wantons to start; the little flower-girl spotting her champagne _Louboutin_ 'Rosazissimo' heels and veering off the aisle mid-procession, to climb into her lap and fiddle with the beaded flowers on her dress; the way Will had looked when he had first seen her in the dress, dancing with him on the hand-painted dance-floor while Megan and her new husband gazed lovingly at each other; Will in his tux; getting lost amongst the ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss… And the oaks brought up more memories, sun-drenched afternoons reading and picnicking on a blanket…kissing and watching the stars in the bed of Will's truck under the oak where he had carved their initials inside a heart…the intense heat of his skin against hers, the ecstasy and spine-tingling anticipation with each burning kiss and the sound of cicadas and the waves as she kneaded his ass, and he gave the final push…her heart stuttered and squeezed even now, remembering.

"Ivy and Jonah will be at lunch now," Wendy murmured gently, still eyeing the dress thoughtfully. Alyn couldn't look at it without her heart burning. Her dad had asked if she missed Will.

She didn't feel the absence of her kidney: but Will no longer being part of her life…she felt that keenly. Her dad had understood the pain of losing someone, but going on living in the knowledge that they were out there, somewhere, living a life separate from yours. No longer able to experience their extraordinary presence…

Alyn sifted through her thoughts, trying to distance herself from the dress and focus on what Wendy had said. Jonah and Ivy. The house had been quiet when Alyn had turned up in the cab, straight from JFK, eager to get home yet feeling completely alien in the house she had once so adored. It was December now; she hadn't been back to the city since the first week of June, and the culture-shock had bombarded her in a way she hadn't realised she would be so affected. It was _snowing_ here; there was no such thing, on the Georgia coast. The sea kept everything moderate, but Manhattan was anything but; her face felt chapped, her hair wild, the cold had cut her to the marrow, and she realised for the first time that the sun-drenched days of summer in sundresses and bikini-tops were gone forever.

As keenly-aware as she was of the fact that just because she was not a part of them anymore didn't mean people's lives stopped, it still struck her that life was still going on… What was that Shakespeare quote about Julius Caesar, that the entire world should have felt his loss? A quiet murmur, and he was gone… Footprints on the sand washed away by the unceasing tide…

"Let me show you something," Wendy said softly, indicating Alyn should follow her to Ivy's side of their shared bedroom. Sharing wasn't a necessity, but Alyn knew they wouldn't be as close if they hadn't shared a bedroom since Ivy was a baby. And god, had she missed her baby-sister in the past months. Missed the incessant boisterousness and the way she would climb into bed with her in the middle of the night, cuddling up against her back. The crisp white desk tucked into the corner of the bedroom wasn't ever actually used by Ivy to do homework – she was too young; but it featured her camera, the one she had carried around like an extra limb this summer, and the shell-pink scrapbook Dad had given her for her birthday. Sheaves of pretty stickers were thrown about, cropped slivers of glossy photographs had been pushed aside to make way for a 12"x12" piece of scrapbook paper, and Alyn's lips trembled despite her smile, as she looked at the photograph resting on the top: the foot of a folding red beach-chair draped in a beach-towel and a handmade quilt obscured one corner, with a hint of the Scrabble-board that had been a necessity in the evenings, Ivy's little floral pop-up tent in the background, with a handmade quilt and her pink-and-white floral bedding spilling out the mouth of the tent, and before it, their work of art and beach-debris, the impenetrable racoon-trap they had built together to protect the nest of loggerhead-turtle eggs; tiny Ivy was stood front-and-centre in front of the trap, wearing her oversize camouflage helmet, translucent lilac glitter-jelly sandals, heart-shaped sunglasses, her _Girl Scout_ Daisies sash into which she had tucked her pink water-pistol and Buzz Lightyear walkie-talkie, and she carried a badminton-racket to fend off rabid daylight-marauding racoons. She was grinning from ear to ear, her skin already starting to tan, feet apart, shoulders thrown back, beaming with pride at the job they had done, and excited to count the days until the eggs had hatched.

The sun had just started to set in the photograph, and in the distance, Alyn hadn't even noticed when she had taken the picture, a very tall figure with gorgeous broad shoulders approached, carrying a camping lantern and a sleeping-bag. Will.

Ivy had acquired a lot of very pretty stickers – some had turtles, some sea-shells, palm-trees, _Scrabble_ tiles, snorkels, fish, Disney princesses, sushi, red tricycles, _Lilo & Stitch_, cakes – but as she observed the creative mess, Alyn realised with a sinking, heartsick sensation that Ivy had been waiting for her to come home before she started putting these memories together in the scrapbook Dad had given her for her seventh birthday.

Looking through the clear acetate sheaves of stickers, she saw the glittery oceanic _Jolee_ ones Will had given Ivy. Alyn had promised to help her scrapbook all of her photographs from that summer.

"She's been waiting," she said quietly, her eyes burning, and Wendy gave her a sad smile.

"You'd promised her," she answered gently. "I think…she needs you to help her…the way your dad helped you with your music." Alyn looked at the heavy digital-camera on the desk; there was just the finest trace of dust on the top. Unusual – spilt nail-polish, sand, strawberry-milkshake, hairspray, the camera had withstood it all, because Ivy had never put it down, not in nearly three months at the beach.

"She's not been taking pictures?"

"The school won't let her take it in," Wendy sighed. "I'm sure with you back, she'll get excited again."

"How's Jonah?" Alyn asked quietly, glancing up at her aunt. In the last few months, Alyn had stayed by her father's side, night and day: she had come to terms in her way with what was happening, because there was no way to avoid it. Ivy was still far too little to really understand, but Jonah, he knew what was going on but couldn't quite grasp the fine details. And as much as Dad had tried to sound enthusiastic and full of life during their phone-calls, even that effort had exhausted him. Jonah knew that when he had come home to Manhattan for school, he had left his father sick with cancer to his stomach. He knew Alyn had stayed to be with him, but up until their last phone-conversation, Jonah had still believed there was a chance Dad would get better.

Alyn remembered a small note she had received, the one she took out of her pocket when things were too horrible for her to bear, the note she read and waves of calm would sweep over her, '_If my hopes could heal, your father would watch us dance at our wedding… I'm so sorry, Alyn. I love you, always and forever, Will_'.

"He's…gonna be real happy you're home," Wendy said, wincing slightly. She cocked her head thoughtfully, her almond-shaped eyes, catlike with her artful use of eyeliner and mascara, taking in Alyn's tired eyes, the miserable turn to her lips, the way her grief and loneliness weighed on her shoulders. "Although not half as happy as I am that you're here to take over entertaining the little imp."

"How was it, Ivy 24/7?" Alyn smiled, the first true smile she'd made in weeks.

"Uh, did you not hear me just say how happy I am you're back?" Wendy smirked. "God knows I love that little girl, but she has _missed you_." She gave Alyn a sad smile. "We all have." Wendy sighed, leading Alyn back to her bed, and she sat down, propped up by her arm, eyeing Alyn steadily as she continued to unpack things from her suitcase – mementos from the beach, manila folders full of sheet-music, photographs still in their frames, packets of printed photographs, recipe-books, her aluminum lunch-box, a couple books, some 45 records, a few bikinis, her large silver-and-lavender _Benefit_ cosmetics-bag. She unzipped it, and removed the bottle of _OPI_ 'The Thrill of Brazil' Galadriel had surprised her with a few weeks ago. The glass was cold against her palm, but Wendy smiled, understanding, and reached for the almond cuticle-oil and buffer.

"So…" Wendy glanced up, gently removing the old nail-polish from Alyn's fingertips. "I know you didn't, the day of the funeral…but do you want to talk?" Allowing Wendy to do what she did best – massage her hands with fragrant balm, gently pushing and nipping cuticles, buffing and smoothing her nails, as she gently got Alyn talking about what was on her mind, without even conscious effort – Alyn felt her eyes burn, her throat closing up, and glancing over at the camera on Ivy's desk, the fuchsia dress draped from her bed-canopy, the sand still in the bottom of her suitcase…

"It started with the fire," she said hoarsely, glancing over at Wendy as her aunt expertly manicured her fingertips, gently massaging her hands one after the other. She had been dreading coming home – at first, she had dreaded the idea because it meant only one thing: that her father was gone, and she no longer had any reason to stay in Tybee Island.

On the flight home, she had come to an understanding with herself: she had also been dreading the next step she had to take. Thomas Woolf had once written that you couldn't go home again. Too much had happened to Alyn now to ever be the girl she had once been, the one too angry and ashamed to go back to something she loved despite missing it with an ache that woke her in the middle of the night, the girl who would have been content to stay at home with her little-sister and their brother, rather than go out and have adventures, because she'd believed at home with Ivy was where she had needed to be. She would have been happy to stay and live in the little cocoon of her relationship with her little-sister, though she now realised that it would never have stayed the way it was, her six-year-old precocious sister would one day grow up, and years of Alyn's life would be gone, when she could have been going out having her own real adventures, while they played make-believe…

To leave behind her little-sister and Jonah, to move out of the house she loved with Wendy for her aunt-slash-big-sister, her best-friend… Yes, she had been afraid of losing that; but she hadn't realised just how much she was giving up without even giving herself the opportunity to gain it first. And part of her indecision about college had come down to the piano, and her dad, and her own anxieties, all of which now she had come to terms with as part of growing up. That anxiousness, growing up, moving from an adolescent to an adult.

She hadn't been ready, before, to take that step into adulthood. Without appreciating it herself, the last few months had turned her into an adult, in a way no college experience could ever afford her.

And now, she could tell Wendy about how it had begun, the terrific summer she had shared with her dad, her little-brother and sister, the summer she had fallen in love, and the summer her heart had been broken, and healed.

* * *

**A.N.**: So…yes, this is my take on _The Last Song_, but hopefully it'll be a little different – the same key themes will be present, but the relationships between Alyn, Steve and Jonah are a little different, because she doesn't appear in Tybee Island with a huge chip on her shoulder; she arrives guilty and contrite. With a hangover. In my mind, Alyn in looks is a bit of Emma Watson peppered with Amber Heard, Ashley Benson and Elle Fanning.


End file.
